


my heart is gold and my hands are cold

by madgrad2011



Series: Out of the Ash [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, Banshee Lydia Martin, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Lydia-centric, Missing Scenes, Slow Burn Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5957926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madgrad2011/pseuds/madgrad2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia has never put much energy into debating the effectiveness of visualization. The idea that, if you wish for something long enough and hard enough, it will happen. There’s no legitimate evidence, she’s always argued, that corroborates people's belief in the power of wishing.</p>
<p>She believes in science, medicine, and math. She believes psychosomatic and somatoform disorders exist because of chemical and hormonal imbalances in the body. She also believes that, no matter how much you wish someone will stay, they rarely ever do.</p>
<p>But, she’s desperate.</p>
<p>So, she tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is gold and my hands are cold

_Dying_  
_Is an art, like everything else._  
_I do it exceptionally well._

_I do it so it feels like hell._  
_I do it so it feels real._  
_I guess you could say I’ve a call._

_Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”_

* * *

The headache starts at the base of her skull, pain ricocheting along her synapses like shrapnel with each shallow, staccato breath she takes. She gently licks her cold, blue-tinged lips and they tingle.

Hypoxia, she thinks tiredly.

Allison’s eyes are filled with concern as she examines Lydia’s red and tender neck, her pale lips thin with worry. Scott and Stiles watch the examination from across the room, their shoulders hunched and faces gaunt in the dim moonlight streaming through the classroom’s windows. Stiles chews on his thumbnail, his eyes never leaving her tear-streaked face. She counts the light freckles dotting Allison’s cheeks and nose, and tries to ignore his stare.

Jennifer Blake took his father and she couldn’t do anything to stop her.

Useless, she thinks bitterly.

She hisses a little and scrunches her nose as Allison wipes away the blood blooming in the thin indentation left by the garrote with a piece of peroxide-soaked cloth.

“Sorry,” Allison winces. “Almost done.”

When she had tried to speak earlier, the words grated together like gravel, the sound halting just beyond her lips. Her scream had left her voice in tatters like a frayed sheet fluttering on a laundry line.

She wishes Stiles would stop looking at her like that. Like he did the night they rode through Beacon Hills in his Jeep looking for Jackson. Like she’s some kind of unsolvable puzzle. She wishes he would say something sarcastic about her losing her voice so she can better pretend that everything is going to be okay. That they aren’t so helpless. That this situation isn’t as hopeless as it seems.

“Lydia, we need you to tell us what happened,” Scott says quietly. She can hear the implied question in the timbre of his voice.

_What are you?_

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts impatiently, “we know what happened.”

She slides her watery eyes towards him. His hand hovers next to his mouth, tremoring slightly. He notices her stare and crosses his arms.

“We don’t need to do this right now,” Allison adds lightly, placing the peroxide back into the first aid kit and clicking it shut.

“Yes, we do,” Scott sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “An ambulance is on its way to take Lydia to the hospital. We need to understand why she was targeted.”

_So we can protect her._

He doesn’t say it aloud, but she knows that’s what he means. Stiles and Allison exchange a glance over Scott’s bowed head.

They don’t think I’m equipped to handle this, she realizes with a sharp pang. They still believe that - out of all them - she’s the most helpless. Their concern strengthens her resolve. She wets her lips and prepares to speak.

“She said I knew too much,” she manages to croak quietly.

Scott looks up as Stiles and Allison turn to face her, a mixture of shock and incredulity on their faces.

“What the hell does that mean?” Stiles asks with annoyance.

“Maybe she thought Lydia was an easy target?” Scott suggests half-heartedly.

Allison rolls her eyes. “Judging by the state of this classroom and your own encounter with her, I’m pretty sure we’re all easy targets.”

Lydia watches the exchange wearily.

I’m something, she thinks, I told her I was something and she told me that I knew too much.

“She called me ‘The Wailing Woman’,” she mutters. Her throat aches from the effort of trying to speak above a whisper.

“The Wailing Woman?” Scott asks. He moves closer to her and she remembers the security she felt when he squeezed her hand earlier that day.

_You get me the time and I’ll do something about it. I swear I will,_ he had said _._

She sits up a little straighter, fingers clutching the edge of desk where she perches next to the first aid kit.

“Banshee,” Stiles supplies. Lydia meets his surprised gaze and nods once, gently.

“A banshee?” Allison asks. “Like in _Harry Potter_?”

She wrinkles her nose and waves her hand in remonstration.

“You know what I mean,” Allison says with a huff. “You’re obviously not an old hag.”

“What? Like someone who predicts death?” Scott asks skeptically.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, wincing slightly at the roughness of her voice.

“That would explain a lot,” Stiles interjects, catching Scott’s eye. “Like why you keep finding dead bodies all over town.”

He misses the glare she throws his way.

“So, she tried to kill you because you’re a banshee?” Allison asks, her forehead furrowed. Lydia glances at each of her friends in turn. All of them are watching her with arms crossed.

“I don’t know,” she responds quietly, unconsciously touching her neck. She can feel their eyes on her bruised flesh.

***

She and Stiles know why Jennifer Blake targeted her; it’s because she kept drawing that damn tree.

She pushes the floor number for Derek’s loft again, tapping her foot impatiently. She watches the yellow numbers on the screen above the door blink haphazardly as the elevator climbs higher. They must still be having issues with the electricity after…

No, she thinks emphatically.

She can’t go there now.

She closes her eyes and focuses on the sound of cables slipping through the shaft's system of gears and pulleys. Allison, Stiles, and Scott are counting on her to figure out where the Nemeton is located. She takes a deep breath.

“I can do this,” she whispers, opening her eyes and clutching the strap of her purse.

She has to do this.

She jumps slightly when her cell phone vibrates; it’s a message from Allison.

_Isaac and I are heading to the clinic_ . _Where are you and Stiles_?

The elevator door slides open and she exits, quickly typing a response.

_Stiles got held up at school. I’m at the loft_.

She slips her phone into her purse as she nears Derek’s door, ignoring the gentle buzz of Allison’s response. She knocks on the door twice, the two firm thuds echoing like a gavel in the empty hallway.

She braces herself for the disdainful attitude Derek seems to reserve just for her. The door slides open with a loud groan and her stance falters slightly. Her breath catches in her throat as Peter’s eyes meet hers.

“You,” she says. Her hands fall into fists at her sides.

“Me,” Peter replies hesitantly.

“You,” she reiterates with a hint of a snarl, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Me,” Peter repeats, averting his eyes, hunching his shoulders, and bowing his head in a half-hearted attempt to appear remorseful. The short hairs on the back of her neck rise in warning, and she fights her instinct to turn and run.

“Derek,” Peter calls over his shoulder with a small sneer, “we have a visitor.”

“Coming,” Derek responds, his voice muffled. She waits until she hears his footsteps on the spiral staircase before cautiously stepping around Peter to enter the loft. He watches her with barely-restrained amusement in his eyes.

It makes her want to claw them out.

Peter smiles like he knows what she’s thinking, and it makes her skin crawl.

“You seem tense,” he remarks as he shuts the heavy, metal door.

“Still alive, I see,” she retorts icily, keeping her eyes on him. “I thought someone would have had the good sense to kill you again by now.”

“Apparently not,” Peter bites back. Her phone buzzes again but she ignores it. She sees Derek enter the room in her periphery vision.

“Lydia,” Derek says in lieu of a greeting.

“Derek,” she replies with her eyes still on Peter.

“I think I make our visitor nervous, Derek,” Peter says with a lascivious smile. She knows they can hear her elevated heartbeat. She grits her teeth and begins silently counting backwards from ten. The bruise around her neck aches sharply.

Derek steps between them and, after glancing at Lydia, turns to face Peter.

“Sit down,” he says, his voice even and controlled. Peter strolls towards the chair closest to Lydia.

“Over there,” Derek clarifies with a jerk of his head. Peter stops and smirks at his nephew before turning on his heel and crossing the room.

“Lydia, why are you here?” Derek asks quietly, turning his attention back to her.

For the first time since entering the loft, Lydia allows herself to look away from Peter. The concern in Derek’s eyes surprises her.

“We found out where Ms. Blake is keeping them,” she replies dazedly, anger and fear coursing through her body and making her feel light-headed.

“Where?”

***

She’s at the loft less than five minutes; she stays just long enough for Derek and Peter to confirm that they don’t know the location of the Nemeton.

Derek walks her to the door, glaring at Peter when he moves to get up from his chair.

“Keep me updated,” he says before sliding the door shut behind her.

She decides to take the stairs.

When she gets to her car, she slides into the driver’s seat, locks the doors, and pulls her phone out of her purse. Her hands are shaking, and a cold sweat beads on her forehead and the back of her neck. She has three missed messages and four missed calls from Allison.

_Stiles sent you to Derek’s alone?_

_Do you need me? Are you okay?_

_Answer me Lydia!_

She presses Allison’s number and holds the trembling phone up to her ear. She opens her other hand, palm-up, on her lap; four crescent-shaped indents cut through her health, head, fate, and life lines. She inhales sharply, closing her eyes and pressing her palm to her flushed chest.

Allison picks up after the first ring.

“Lydia, are you okay?” Allison asks worriedly. Her voice echoes a little in the phone’s receiver.

“I’m leaving for the clinic now.” Her voice sounds thin. She bites her lip to keep from crying and fumbles in her purse for her keys.

“Was he there?” Allison asks after a beat. Lydia takes a deep breath and puts her key into the ignition before answering.

“Yeah. Will you stay on the phone with me while I drive over?”

“Of course,” Allison replies.

She starts the car and waits for her bluetooth to pick up the sound of Allison’s steady breathing before pulling out of the loft’s parking lot.

“Tell me what you and Isaac found out?” She suggests quietly, her hands clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip.

“Sure,” Allison says lightly. She listens to the lilt of Allison’s voice and tries to steady her breathing.

***

It takes her 869 seconds to reach the clinic, 156 seconds to park, and an additional 232 seconds to catch her breath.

***

“I shouldn’t have sent you to Derek’s by yourself,” Stiles says as he pulls his hoodie over his head. They are standing side-by-side in one of the clinic’s examination rooms watching Isaac and Deaton fill up the large, silver tubs with ice and water. Scott is changing in the restroom while Allison changes in Deaton’s office.

“It’s not your fault,” Lydia interjects quietly.

“You shouldn’t have had to face that dick alone,” he continues, running a hand through his hair and tugging on the ends.

“Stiles, we needed information,” Lydia says, gently placing a hand on his bare arm. He closes his eyes and chews on his bottom lip.

“And, I wasn’t alone,” she amends, turning and placing her hands on the metal examination table behind them. Its smooth surface is cool to the touch.

Stiles looks at her incredulously.

“Derek was there,” she explains.

“And that was comforting?” He asks, his nose wrinkling slightly.

“Actually, yes,” Lydia shrugs, meeting his stunned gaze. “I think he hates Peter as much as I do.”

***

The hollow tick-tock of the clock in Deaton’s office pulses through the heavy silence like the beat of a metronome. She sits with her back against one of the clinic’s concrete walls and her legs stretched out in front of her. It’s her turn to keep watch over the three large tubs in which their friends float like corpses, suspended both literally and figuratively between life and death.

They’ve been waiting for Scott, Allison, and Stiles to return for nearly thirteen hours. Deaton and Isaac sit in an adjacent room talking softly. None of them have ventured very far from the tubs; throughout the day, they’ve circled them like wolves patrolling a den, moving around each other in a concentric dance of hope, worry, and despair.

Anxiety presses against her chest, making it difficult for her to breath. She wonders if the anxiety is her own, or if she might be feeling some of Stiles’ as well.

She drums her fingers on her knees and attempts to relax.

Deaton had tried explaining to her and Isaac what would happen now that they were emotionally tethered to Stiles and Allison.

“The results of the process haven’t been studied in great detail,” he had shared during their seventh hour of watching. “Ramifications develop based on an individual’s personal experiences and the strength of their relationship with their tether.”

“Ramifications?” Isaac had asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“They will have a permanent darkness around their hearts now because they have opened themselves up to death and to the beyond,” Deaton had replied softly, glancing at Lydia. “Their susceptibility to this darkness will depend in large part upon the darkness they already carry inside them and the darkness you carry within yourself.”

“That’s comforting,” Isaac had muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms. Lydia had sucked in her cheeks and exhaled through her nose.

I’m apparently a fucking harbinger of death; there probably isn’t any light left in me, she had thought bitterly.

“Depending on the strength of your bond, you may also feel some of their more potent emotions and vice versa,” Deaton had continued.

“Wait. She-they won’t be able to like read our minds, right?” Isaac had asked nervously, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows rose in surprise.

“How are we supposed to distinguish between their emotions and ours?” Lydia had interjected, rolling her eyes at Isaac.

“I’m not sure,” Deaton had mused with a small smile. “I suspect that you and your respective tether will need to figure that out together.”

She tilts her head back to look at the clinic’s white ceiling, her eyes searching for patterns to count. Pareidolia, she thinks sardonically, tucking her hands between her knees.

She had been surprised when Deaton insisted that she go with Stiles. Sure, he used to have a crush on her, but now they were friends; he couldn’t put her on a pedestal and pretend she was perfect. She remembers the awkward way he had followed her around Macy’s before the Winter Formal, stumbling and tripping over his feet like a hyperactive puppy. He hadn’t acted like that around her in a while. And earlier…

She closes her eyes.

Already, the memory is fading, the colors softening and the edges crinkling. Part of her wonders if perhaps she dreamt it - if she invented the moment in order to allay her own panic. But, she knows it was real.

Their kiss.

She knows it happened. That, in her desperation to find a solution - any solution - to prove she could do _something_ to help her friends, she pressed her lips to his.

She remembers the feeling of the sun-warmed concrete beneath her knees and palms, the sticky-sweet smell of cologne, and the tendrils of panic that wrapped themselves around her heart as she watched Stiles gasp for breath on the dirty locker room floor.

With shaking hands, she had cupped his cheeks and tried to get him to focus on anything other than the shitty situation they now found themselves in - family, friends, her. She had watched his forehead furrow in confusion and his pupils dilate as she drew herself closer, the purple and black bruise that encircled her neck aching painfully as her heart pounded a tattoo into her chest.

The solution to their predicament struck her suddenly and, without thinking, she pressed her lips to his.

She was desperate; her response frenzied. She expected their teeth to clack, their noses to bump, or their foreheads to collide. She expected him to pull away.

She didn’t expect to get quite so wrapped up in him.

His scent - fresh and sharp like the air before a summer storm - had enveloped her just before her lips touched his. His bottom lip had been full and soft and his top lip slightly chapped, the dry skin around his crooked cupid’s bow tickling her nose.

(By kissing him, she let herself fall into him.)

His skin had been warm beneath her trembling hands.

(Into everything he was.)

She could taste the Dr. Pepper he drank at lunch on his lips and tongue.

(Into everything he could be.)

When he finally exhaled into her mouth, she had inhaled his soda-sweet breath and held her own, his next inhale taking her breath away.

She had kept her eyes shut as they pulled apart, listening to the steady thump of her pulse in her ears. She'd used those few seconds to try and gather all the pieces of her now-vulnerable heart and stuff them back behind the thick walls of her chest, but it had been like trying to catch dust dancing in a sunbeam. She had blinked her eyes open and found him studying her, awe and affection softening his gaze even as their synchronized breaths remained unsteady.

Her eyes had swept across his face, taking in his flushed cheeks and pink lips. The depth of emotion in his eyes had made her feel dizzy; she hadn’t stopped to consider what the consequences of this kiss would be. Panic caused her heart to beat a little faster, her elevated pulse sharply reminding her of the ugly bruise around her neck.

“How’d you do that?” He had gasped, the sun shining on his upturned face and flecks of gold rising to the surface of his amber eyes.

“Um…I read once that holding your breath could stop a panic attack,” she had replied, her voice catching. “When I kissed you, you held your breath.”

“I did?” He had asked, his voice trembling as he glanced at her lips.

“Yeah. You did.”

“That was really smart,” he had said with admiration, his eyes large and wet.

Smart.

She opens her eyes in surprise.

He had called her smart.

She scrabbles to hold onto the memory, determined to not let that moment - that feeling - fade like the others. She affectionately clutches it to her chest and imprints him on her heart.

***

“You want some company?” Isaac asks nearly sixteen hours into their ceaseless vigil. She glances up at him from her seated position on the floor, noting the tension in his jaw and worry in his eyes. His curly hair is mussed and sticking up a little in the back from where he fell asleep on the floor during hour fourteen.

“Sure,” she replies with a shrug. He slides down the wall beside her, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his lean arms around them.

“Deaton’s in his office,” Isaac shares, staring at the tubs.

“Has he found anything yet?” Lydia asks quietly, uncrossing and re-crossing her ankles.

“No,” Isaac answers with a frustrated sigh. “His books don’t seem to have anything about how long this process should take; he says it’s subjective or something.”

She nods slowly.

“You think-I mean-we would know, right?” Isaac stutters nervously, turning suddenly to look at her.

She meets his gaze and deliberately quirks an eyebrow. “Know what?”

“You know,” Isaac mutters, “if they were gone.”

“You mean dead.” Lydia says bluntly, looking away.

Silence fills the room like sand, scratching her skin and making her eyes water. She blinks furiously and balls her hands into fists.

“I’m just trying to prepare myself for the worst,” Isaac responds gently a few minutes later.

“They’re not dead,” she replies with a tone of finality. “I would- _we_ would know.”

She feels rather than sees Isaac’s nod. He slowly clambers to his feet, adjusting his scarf.

“I’m going to check in with Deaton,” he announces before shuffling away. Lydia brushes away the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes with her fingertips and sniffles quietly.

I would know, she thinks desperately, they’re my best friends.

She _has_ to know.

***

Lydia has never put much energy into debating the effectiveness of visualization. The idea that, if you wish for something long enough and hard enough, it will happen. There’s no legitimate evidence, she’s always argued, that corroborates people's belief in the power of wishing.

She believes in science, medicine, and math. She believes psychosomatic and somatoform disorders exist because of chemical and hormonal imbalances in the body. She also believes that, no matter how much you wish someone will stay, they rarely ever do.

But, she’s desperate.

So, she tries.

She closes her eyes and attempts to visualize their tether.

Unbidden, the image of a string - stretching across the current distance between them - enters her mind. Her nose wrinkles in disdain. Strings remind her of her childhood obsession with mythology. Of late, summer nights spent reading about heroes’ struggling and triumphing against the thin threads of inevitability crafted by the Moirai - Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The three sisters with the power to determine each person’s fate by spinning, measuring, and cutting a string.

She doesn’t believe in inevitabilities; but, she does believe in her friends.

She remembers the feeling she had when he called her smart as she wraps the string around her hand and pulls.

Please, she thinks, come back.

_Will their tether be a blessing or a curse? An extra layer of protection or their achilles heels?_

Come back, she pleads.

A tingle crawls its way up her spine as the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She feels a sharp tug beneath her ribs on her left side, urging her towards the tubs.

When Stiles’ head breaks the surface of the water, she’s already halfway to her feet.

* * *

Her father is chasing her around their backyard, the green grass soft beneath her bare feet. She shrieks with delight when he catches her, tossing her into the air with a loud whoop.

“Lydia,” he whispers in a sing-song voice, gently tickling her sides.

“Riddle, riddle!” She gasps between giggles.

“Feed me and I live,” he laughs, his cheeks flushed and his smile wide. “Give me a drink and I die.”

She tucks her head into his chest and chews on her lip as she works through the various options. Her father rocks her in his arms, kissing her forehead and humming softly. She snuggles closer, listening to the rhythmic cadence of his breath.

After a moment, he quietly starts to sing, “I feel my temperature rising/Help me, I’m flaming/I must be a hundred and nine…”

She raises her head and looks at him quizzically, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Burning, burning, burning/And nothing can cool me/ I might just turn into smoke/But I feel fine…” He continues with a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eye.

“Fire!” She exclaims in excitement. “The answer is fire!”

“That’s my girl,” he says, affectionately tugging on one of her curls before tossing her again towards the bright, summer sky. The warm air whips through her long hair, carrying her loud laugh up towards the clouds. She closes her eyes and pretends to fly...

A voice spouting riddles snakes through her dream with a sinister hiss, teeth clicking and mouth spitting.

_What gets bigger the more you take away?_

“That’s easy,” she answers with a roll of her eyes. “A hole.”

Something scuttles behind her in the dark and she turns.

_What gets wetter the more it dries?_

She narrows her eyes and moves toward the sound, her lips pursed.

“A towel,” she replies cautiously.

“Lydia?”

She whips around as she hears Stiles’ voice. The dark tunnel she’s walking in wavers slightly and she finds herself sitting in Stiles’ bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his knee. But, before she can speak, the scene shifts again and she’s back in the tunnel. Water drips down the stone walls, hitting the concrete floor with dull plops and the metal pipes with sharp pings.

_Smart girl,_ a voice gurgles from behind her, _when is a door not a door?_

“Stiles?” She responds worriedly, ignoring the question. The sound of fingernails scraping along the wall echoes down the tunnel. Her breath catches in her throat.

“Tsk, tsk,” she hears a familiar voice scold. “Aren’t you going to answer the question, Lydia?”

She blinks rapidly and backs against the wall. She can hear his heavy footsteps approaching. See his shadow growing larger on the wall.

“I don’t-”

“Come now,” Peter sneers,” when is a door not a door?”

_A door not a door_ , the other voice repeats.

“When it’s ajar,” she whispers, pressing her body as close to the wall as she can. She tries to ignore the chill water now dripping down her neck and soaking the back of her nightdress.

“That’s my girl,” Peter laughs, clapping slowly as his eyes flash blue.

“Stiles,” she whimpers unconsciously. She closes her eyes and sees Stiles walking towards his half-open bedroom door. She can feel the blood pulsing in her temporal arteries.

“One more riddle, Lydia,” Peter taunts. “Then you can wake up.”

The other voice laughs bitterly, mockingly.

_Everyone has it but no one can lose it._

“Fuck you,” she bites, keeping her eyes closed.

Peter growls and the scuffling sound behind her grows agitated.

“Stiles,” she pleads quietly, her throat aching from the effort of holding back her scream.

“What is it, Lydia?” Peter asks, his hot breath caressing her face and his lips brushing her ear.

_What is it?_

She wakes with a start. Her heart pounding, breath hitching, and sheets damp with sweat. Her head sinks back into her pillow as she tries to catch her breath.

It was just a dream, she thinks, clutching her comforter to her chest with trembling hands. Her alarm clock beeps shrilly on her nightstand.

“Just a dream,” she repeats aloud.

***

“Everyone has it but no can lose it,” she muses as she carefully pours sodium hypochlorite into a beaker.

“What was that?” Danny asks, making a quick notation in their AP Chemistry experiment packet before adjusting his safety goggles.

“Oh,” Lydia answers sheepishly, placing the container of sodium hypochlorite back on the table and meeting Danny’s gaze. “It’s just a riddle I heard.”

“What is it?” Danny asks curiously.

“Everyone has it but no can lose it,” Lydia poses tentatively, her heart beating a little faster.

“That’s simple,” Danny smiles. “Your shadow.”

***

“I saw you and Aiden talking next to your locker this morning,” Allison says, turning her head slightly in an effort to catch Lydia’s eye.

“Allison, this braid is going to be crooked if you keep moving,” she scolds, gently pressing Allison’s cheek so she’ll face forward again. Allison reluctantly complies, fidgeting and shifting into a cross-legged position on the floor. Lydia hums in approval, running her fingers through Allison’s silky hair and dividing it into three sections.

“Should I infer from your conversation that you’re seeing him again?” Allison asks after a beat, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on her knees.

“Who?” Lydia replies, furrowing her brow and biting her lip in concentration as she begins plaiting Allison’s hair into a single french braid.

“Aiden,” Allison responds exasperatedly, turning again to look at Lydia. “Are you seeing Aiden again?”

She releases Allison’s hair with a huff. “You ruined that braid; I’ll have to start again.”

“Lydia, would you please stop ignoring the question?” Allison asks with a hint of frustration, scooting around to face her. “Are you two dating again?”

“To clarify, we were never dating,” she replies haughtily. “We just hooked up occasionally.”

Allison rolls her eyes and sighs. “Fine. I concede that point-”

“Thank you,” Lydia interjects.

“But, are you dating now?” Allison concludes, curiosity clear in her eyes.

“He wants to,”Lydia grimaces.

“Do you want to?” Allison asks, placing her hands on Lydia’s knees.

“I don’t know,” Lydia shrugs, picking at a small tear in the hem of her pajama pants. “I feel like I’ve been giving him mixed signals since-”

She swallows and meets Allison’s concerned gaze.

“He killed Boyd,” she finishes, only a slight quiver in her voice. “I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him after that. But, Scott asked me to distract him so you guys could talk to Ethan and, well, I wanted to help...”

She had tried to play coy with Aiden at school, but he had been insistent.

“I know you like me. Let me prove that I can be a good guy,” he had said, “give me another chance.”

Chances, she thinks with disgust. All she ever gave the men in her life were second chances.

“Scott should never have asked you to do that,” Allison says crossly. “We should have come up with a better plan-”

“Allison,” she interrupts, “we didn’t have time to come up with a better plan.”

“Lydia-”

“I told Aiden that I don’t want to date him,” she admits, her voice more forceful than she intended. She winces slightly at the misplaced acidity in her tone.

“Aiden said he can change - be a good guy,” she explains, squeezing Allison’s hands in apology . “But, I told him that, until he can actually prove that, we’ll just be friends. Nothing more.”

“You promise that’s what you want?” Allison asks, shifting from her position on the floor to sit next to Lydia on the end of the bed. “You’re not just saying it is because of the Pack?” Worry fills her dark eyes and creases her brow.

“Yes,” Lydia laughs, affectionately rolling her eyes. “I promise.”

Allison pulls her into a tight hug.

“You know I would support your decision no matter what, right?” Allison asks seriously. “Whether the others like it or not.”

“I know,” she smiles, laying her chin on Allison’s shoulder. “I know.”

***

She’s given up trying to sleep.

She lays on her bedroom floor with her eyes closed, blinds shut, and curtains drawn against the cold light of the moon. Her right leg shifts and she winces, the sound of the carpet rubbing against her bare calf louder than it should be. Her cell phone buzzes and she jumps, accidentally biting her tongue.

“Shit,” she gasps, her eyes watering and head pounding. She takes a quick glance at the screen and grimaces. It’s another message from Aiden. She sets her phone face-down on the floor beside her, flexing her feet and pressing the palms of her hands over her eyes in dismay and irritation.

I don’t have enough energy for this, she thinks as another loud, metallic clang fills the room.

Aiden had driven her to the hospital to see Stiles, the periodic clicking of his jaw the only sound to disturb the tense ride’s relative silence. He had been annoyed by the disturbing turn their evening had taken - the seemingly pointless trips to both Stiles’ bedroom and Eichen House. He had teased her and mocked Stiles at almost every juncture, referencing Stiles’ old crush and their supposed connection every chance he got.

A small part of her thinks that he was relieved when they didn’t find Stiles in the basement of Eichen House.

_Maybe your connection isn’t as strong as you thought_ , he had said.

She had been ignoring his messages ever since.

She flinches as another loud pop rebounds around the room.

They had started at the hospital - these machine-like clangs and bangs. She had first heard them as she and Scott were walking away from Sheriff Stilinski, the loud reverberation of metal-on-metal bringing her to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway.

“Everything okay?” Scott had asked.

“Yeah,” she had replied with a quick shake of her head. “I just...thought I heard something.”

Scott had cocked his head and flared his nostrils, his red eyes half-closed in the hallway’s bright florescent lights. She had waited until he shook his head, his eyes fading to their typical dark brown again, before speaking.

“I probably just imagined it,” she had admitted anxiously, her shoulders tense.

“We’ve had a long night,” Scott had said gently, grasping her cold hand in his warm one. She had nodded and given him a quick, close-lipped smile.

“Let me take you home,” he had smiled, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

She didn’t tell him how the clanking and hissing had persisted as they made their way down the hall, through the parking lot, and to his mom’s car - how the banging and squeaking had followed her home.

Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes, drip over her temples, and dampen her hair as her ears continue to pop and ring.

***

The scream still vibrates on the tip of her tongue as she fumbles for her phone. Her hands tremble as she scrolls through her contacts looking for his name. She presses the number and waits, her entire body shaking.

“Scott, it’s Stiles,” she says as soon as he picks up. She can hear the panic in her quivering voice. “Stiles is the Nogitsune, isn’t he?”

Please tell me I’m wrong, she thinks desperately, tell me it’s not true.

Scott’s silence is deafening.

“Scott?”

“We’ll do something,” he finally replies, his voice catching on the last syllable.

She lays her forehead against the steering wheel and cries.

***

He grabs her hand and pulls her towards the door.

“Lydia, we have to run,” he gasps, desperation in his eyes. “I can’t-”

“Okay,” she replies without question, relieved that he’s Stiles again - that he and the Nogitsune have been separated at last. He quickly slips into the passenger seat of her car, his breathing labored, as she puts her keys into the ignition.

“They’ll kill him,” she says decisively as she pulls out of the driveway. Adrenaline pumps through her adrenal glands and floods her body, causing her hands to shake slightly as they grip the steering wheel.

“He will never, _never_ bother you again,” she asserts as they speed away from Scott’s house.

“I’m counting on it,” he says as she slows to a stop at the next intersection.

She turns to look at him then, her hands frozen in place at ten and two. His eyes glint maliciously as his mouth slowly opens into a cruel smile.

“Tsk, tsk, Lydia,” he scolds, dragging one finger salaciously down the length of her arm.

“What do you want?” She asks, trying in vain to keep her voice steady.

“I thought you were a genius,” he taunts, tapping her cheek with his open hand. “It’s quite simple really. I want _you_.”

* * *

She screams so long and so loud that she thinks she may have become her scream. Her physical body disintegrating into sound waves, reverberating and reaching up, up, up into the clear, winter sky.

She can’t stop.

Even when Mr. Argent comes down into the tunnels to find her and Stiles.

She curls her body around his, her head resting on his left shoulder and her forehead touching his neck. His body is cold, limp, and seemingly lifeless. She closes her eyes and presses her body closer to his, willing it to accept whatever warmth she has left to offer.

Although the sound of her scream has stopped, its power still vibrates through her body. She wonders if Stiles can feel it. Her grief. Her guilt. Her anger. If he can feel the new wound in her heart weeping blood. She turns her wet face towards his chest and clutches his plaid shirt in her shaking hands. She can hear his heart beating faintly; she tries to time her breaths to its soft rhythm.

She wonders how long they’ve been in the tunnels below Eichen House.

She wonders when someone will venture down into the darkness to find them.

She wonders if she wants to be found.

“Lydia, I need you to let go.”

Mr. Argent’s deep voice echoes through the tunnel, rebounding off the stone walls and metal pipes. She opens her eyes. Light from his flashlight bounces off the damp floor, illuminating the graffitied walls. A fresh wave of tears spills down her cheeks.

“Lydia,” Mr. Argent repeats gently, crouching next to her and Stiles. “We need to get him out of here. Do you understand?”

She studies Mr. Argent’s face in the low light. His eyes are devoid of tears, and his expression guarded. He doesn’t realize that she already knows what he’s dreading to tell her.

He’s trying to protect me, she thinks sadly. They are always trying to protect me.

_That’s why she’s dead._

She nods and gently releases Stiles’ shirt. Mr. Argent helps her to her feet. She leans against the wet wall as he kneels to take Stiles’ pulse.

“He’s alive,” she croaks. Mr. Argent nods once in affirmation, placing one of Stiles’ arms around his shoulders. Lydia takes a deep breath and, using the wall for support, stands up a little straighter. “I know she’s not,” she says, her voice quivering. Mr. Argent pauses. She can hear him grinding his teeth.

“Stiles won’t be unless we get him out of here,” he finally responds, meeting Lydia’s grief-filled gaze with one of his own. Water drips off the pipes like tears.

She steps forward, places Stiles’ other arm around her shoulders, and wraps her arms around his waist. They half-drag, half-carry his body to the surface in silence.

She watches Mr. Argent place Stiles’ unconscious body into Mrs. Yukimura's car; Kira sits in the front seat crying. Isaac huddles beside the chain-link fence with his face in his hands.

Scott’s still holding her, his head bowed and shoulders shaking. A puddle of red soaks into his jeans and runs into his shoes. Their dark hair looks black in the silver moonlight. She stumbles around them because she has to see...

_She has to see her._

Scott looks up as she enters his periphery. Tears drip from his long lashes and fall in thin rivulets down his face. His forehead is furrowed, his nose scrunched. She falls to her knees and reaches for Allison’s hand.

_It’s too cold._

She squeezes it hard with both hands until she can feel the edges of Allison’s tactical glove imprinting on the skin of her palm.

She’s too still. Too pale. Blood leaks from her mouth, staining her lips and chin red. Lydia can see the reflection of stars in her open, unseeing eyes.

“Lydia,” Scott manages to say, “I tried.”

I failed, she thinks.

She lays down on the cold ground beside her best friend, her mouth open in a silent scream.

***

She feels everything and nothing. Strangers spin around her like tops, in and out of the blur of flashing red and blue lights. Faces fade and sharpen. Whispers echo like shouts in the clear, night air. Each magnified, overwhelming sound a stark reminder that her best friend is dead.

Her best friend is dead and  _it's her fault_.

She tries to make herself look as small as she feels by pulling her legs and arms into her chest; but, she can’t seem to get her limbs to cooperate. They hang suspended from her core like those of a marionette - lethargic, limp, and cold.

She overhears Scott asking Mr. Argent about Stiles.

“Is Stiles-”

“He’s okay. Kira and her mother are looking after him.”

“I forgot - I meant to check on him,” Scott gasps, “To make sure he was okay. But I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t - I can’t-”

“Scott, breathe.”

She watches Mr. Argent place his hands on Scott’s shuddering shoulders. She feels as thin and listless as a piece paper that’s been shredded and thrown into the wind.

“Lydia saved him,”Mr. Argent says. “Her body heat most likely kept him alive.”

Scott’s chest heaves once, twice, three more times before he seems to catch his breath. Tears glisten on his cheeks. Lydia directs her gaze to the deputy standing beside the medical personnel checking her vitals. He is watching her, sympathy in his light green eyes. She glances at his name badge.

Parrish.

“Ms. Martin, I’ll need you to come with me to the station,” he says, his youthful voice cutting through the thumping sound Allison’s body makes as it’s placed on the gurney.

She doesn’t respond. Isaac leans against the trunk of the police car where she perches, her wedges scuffing the bumper. They watch as the coroner zips up the black bag that holds her body and gives the go-ahead for it to be loaded into the waiting ambulance.

“Ms. Martin,” Parrish repeats as all the medical personnel begin packing up their gear.

Isaac slides his hand over to hers and squeezes it gently. She glances at him and nods. Isaac steps in front of her, placing his hands on her waist to help steady her as she carefully hops down. He releases her and sniffs loudly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

_It all happened so fast_.

That’s what Mr. Argent told them to say.

She slides into the back of a police car and leans her forehead against the window. She clutches Allison’s glove in her cold hands and counts each street lamp they pass.

***

“Lydia, I need you to take this and read it if I-”

“Stiles, you’re going to make it,” she interrupts impatiently. They are standing on his front porch waiting for Scott and Kira to pick them up and take them to the school so they can finish it.

_Finish him._

“Lydia,” Stiles whispers, his voice shaking. She has her arms wrapped around his torso under his plaid shirt. One of his arms lays limply over her shoulders while the other hangs at his side, his hand in a fist; she can hear the crinkle of paper in it. She looks up and studies his face. His eyes are too wide, too bright. His face too pale. His entire body quivers and she tightens her grasp.

“Please,” he implores, his eyes filled with unshed tears.

She remembers when his constant fidgeting was indicative of all the _life_ he had inside him - his enthusiasm, his sarcasm, his passion. Now, each shiver only serves as a reminder of just how close to death he is.

“Stiles-”

“I need you to take it.” he says, his voice breaking. She closes her eyes and slowly removes one of her hands from around his waist.

“Okay,” she concedes. His cold fingers brush against her palm as he releases the note into her care. Her fingers close around it.

“Thank you,” Stiles exhales, his breath ruffling her hair. She holds him tighter and gently lays her cheek against his trembling chest. Listening to the uneven breaths rattling his lungs, she realizes that she’d be willing to give the universe anything - even her own cracked, heirloom heart - in exchange for his safety.

_For him._

***

Stiles knew.

_Death doesn’t happen to you Lydia_ , he had said.

He was right.

God, how she wished he wasn’t.

* * *

She doesn’t read the note.

She carries it with her for a few days. Holding it in her palm. Tracing its thin creases with shaking fingers. But, she can’t bring herself to open it - to read his last thoughts about her.

For her.

Instead, she slips it into his hand one night at the hospital after he falls asleep. She waits until Scott and Kira leave with the promise to see her at school tomorrow and Sheriff Stilinski goes to the vending machines for a snack before she quietly moves to stand by the bed.

His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes dart beneath closed lids, his lashes fluttering lightly. His face looks fuller than it did two weeks ago and less pale. Tears prick the corners of her eyes and she swallows.

“This is yours,” she whispers, placing the note in his left hand. She hovers uncertainly at the head of the bed for a moment before gently brushing his hair back and placing a quick kiss on his cool forehead. He shifts in his sleep and she holds her breath.

“I swear, that boy could sleep through a hurricane.”

A quiet gasp escapes her lips as she whips around to face Sheriff Stilinski. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a cup of coffee in his hand and a honey bun sticking out of his jacket pocket.

“I was-I was just getting ready to leave,” Lydia stutters, abashed.

Sheriff Stilinski smiles softly and nods. She slips into her coat and grabs her purse.

“Let me walk you to your car, kiddo,” he says, placing his coffee on the table beside the recliner where he’s been sleeping.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s the least I can do,” he interrupts, meeting her startled gaze with his steady one. “For the girl who saved my son.”

She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and releases it with a quiet pop. The room blurs as tears fill her eyes; she blinks rapidly to clear them.

Sheriff Stilinski clears his throat and gestures towards the door. “Shall we?”

He asks her questions about school and her plans for the future as they make their way through the hospital’s dark parking lot. She knows that he’s trying to distract her, and it makes her appreciate his presence even more.

“Thank you, Mr. Stilinski,” she says when they arrive at her car.

“My pleasure,” he replies with a quick nod. She slides into the driver’s seat, closes the door, and places the key in the ignition. Sheriff Stilinski gives her a little wave as she pulls out of her parking spot. She smiles in return and watches as he walks back towards the hospital entrance.

As she drives home, she thinks of the short message she scrawled in loopy cursive on the note under Stiles’ hastily written “For Lydia.”

_Not yet._

She hopes he understands.

***

“Lydia, you remember Malia, right?” Scott asks nervously.

“Of course,” she replies, pushing her AP Calculus workbook back into her locker and pulling out her copy of _The Bell Jar_. She glances over her shoulder at the tall, beautiful girl standing next to Scott and gives her a small, close-mouthed smile.

“I saw you earlier when I was walking with Coach Finstock,” Malia says. “You looked sad.”

Lydia sees Scott flinch out of the corner of her eye. She closes her locker door and clicks her lock into place with a grimace.

“That’s because I am,” she responds, holding her books to her chest.

“Everyone looks sad and,” Malia says, her nostrils flaring slightly and her nose wrinkling, “smells awful.”

Lydia snorts a little at Scott’s slack-jawed expression. _What else did you expect from a girl who’s lived more than half her life as a coyote?_ She wants to ask him.

Malia’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Did I say something wrong?”

Lydia subtly shakes her head at Scott, who looks like he’s on the verge of responding. She makes a mental note to talk to Kira about the two of them helping Malia improve her social acumen.

We should probably extend the invitation to Scott and Stiles too, she thinks with amusement as she slips her free arm around one of Malia’s and shifts forward. Malia’s eyebrows rise in surprise as she follows Lydia’s lead, her elbow crooking to better accommodate Lydia’s hold.

“What’s your next class?” Lydia asks, throwing a still-speechless Scott a quick wave.

“Um… World History,” Malia replies, consulting the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. The paper’s margins are filled with hastily scribbled notes and a number of large question marks. Lydia adds note-taking and study skills to the list of items she’ll need to cover with Malia, already planning a Staples trip for after school to buy her notebooks, pens, and highlighters.

Green, yellow, and red, she muses as they move through the crowded hallway. The colors will help her differentiate between what she knows and what she doesn’t.

“I’ve already taken that class. I think I still have my notes if you would like to borrow them,” she volunteers, her elbow lightly brushing Malia’s side.

“Stiles said you were nice,” Malia responds with surprise.

“And you didn’t believe him?” Lydia teases, glancing up to meet Malia’s eyes and noticing a pencil tucked behind her ear. Teeth marks marr its shaft.

“Well, no,” Malia answers, unabashed. “You don’t share resources with strangers in the wild.”

Lydia hums pensively, steering Malia towards her classroom.

“I see. And, what about with friends?” She asks lightly, stopping right outside the door and reaching inside her purse for a pen.

“I didn’t have any friends in the wild,” Malia frowns.

_And you are my new best friend_ , whispers a memory in her ear.

“Well, you have friends now,” she smiles, offering Malia a pen. The corners of Malia’s lips turn up slightly as she removes the pencil from behind her ear and accepts the pen.

“See you after class?” Lydia asks, gently squeezing Malia’s arm.

“Yeah,” Malia replies, her smile widening. “Okay.”

Lydia takes a deep breath as she walks away, determined to ignore the tears gathering in her eyes and the hollow pang she feels in her chest.

***

Sheriff Stilinski answers the door.

“He’s upstairs,” he tells her quietly, ushering her into the dim foyer. “He hasn’t felt up to seeing many people since he got out of the hospital.”

Lydia had taken Scott aside at school to ask if she could drop off Stiles’ books today. He can’t avoid her if she’s standing right in front of him.

He can’t, she thinks emphatically.

“Would it be okay if I went up?” She asks aloud, licking her lips. “I have his homework.”

“Of course,” Sheriff Stilinski says with a smile. “You remember which room?”

Lydia nods, carefully stepping out of her heels as he shuts the front door behind her. She walks to the staircase in her stockinged-feet, conscious of the Sheriff’s eyes on her. She keeps count of the stairs as she climbs, the fingertips of her right hand skimming the smooth, wood railing as she balances his books on her left hip.

The afternoon sunlight filters through the smudged window at the end of the hall; she can see dust swirling in the beams as they reflect off the knob of his closed bedroom door. The wooden floor is warm beneath her feet. She raises her hand to knock, but hesitates.

Maybe I’m overthinking this, she reflects, anxiously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She has an inkling of what he’s going through right now - the overwhelming guilt and grief. It feels like that’s all her life has been since she brought Peter back to life. And, now, Allison…

_It’s my fault Allison is dead_ , she wants to tell him. _I should have had a better handle on my powers._

She wants to admit to him that she’s already delineated and analyzed every possible alternate scenario and that the blame always leads back to her.

_You should had been able to trust that I could protect myself._

She sighs and stoops to set his books on the floor.

_I should have been able to protect you,_ she thinks with resignation.

“Lydia?”

She turns quickly and sees Stiles exiting a room near the head of the stairs. His hair is damp, and his t-shirt sticks to his body. She swallows and steps away from his door.

“Hi,” she replies with a strained smile. He eyes move to the stack of books on the floor before sliding back up to meet her gaze.

“I was just dropping off your homework,” she finishes when he doesn’t respond. He walks towards her, rubbing his hair and drying his ears with a towel. She can smell his minty shampoo as he draws closer and reaches around her to open his door.

“Thanks,” he says, throwing the wet towel in his laundry basket before turning to pick the books up off the floor. He leans against the doorframe; his tall, lanky body blocking her access to his room. She sees a glimpse of green behind him and realizes with a jolt that he’s repainted.

“How are you?” She asks in an effort to hide her dismay at his guarded tone. He shrugs, running his hand through his hair. She resists the impulse to stand on her tiptoes and brush the few strands still hanging over his forehead out of his eyes.

“Do you want to come in?” He finally asks.

“Sure,” she says, wincing a little at the awkwardness of it all. He steps inside, laying his books on his desk before turning again to face her.

“So-”

“Why haven’t you called or texted me?” She blurts, her fingers nervously skimming the hem of her skirt. His mouth falls open as his eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Lydia, I-”

His shocked, hurt tone makes her want to gather each accusatory word she uttered into her trembling hands and press them back behind her lips.

“Sorry,” she interjects shakily, closing her eyes and holding up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. She takes a deep breath. “We just haven’t spoken in a few weeks and I’ve been worried about you-”

“I’ve been tired,” Stiles interrupts hastily. “I haven’t really-”

“I’ve missed you,” she finishes quietly, slowly opening her eyes. Her tongue tingles at the admission.

_I should have been able to protect you_.

Stiles’ eyes narrow thoughtfully as he crosses his arms and chews on the inside of his cheek.

He’s too still, she thinks sadly. She wonders where the fidgety, sarcastic boy with the buzzcut went - the one she unwittingly chose to ignore all those years. Is he still there inside this new cocoon of self-hatred and anxiety? Or has this new, more serious version of her best friend always been there, lurking under his sarcasm?

“I didn’t mean to-” He pauses to clear his throat and push the rest of his hair out of his eyes. “I just thought you would want some space after what happened,” he concludes.

“I don’t understand,” she lies.

Tell me you’re sorry, she silently pleads, so I can assure you that there’s nothing to forgive.

_It wasn’t you._

“After what happened to Allison,” he clarifies. His voice catches when he says her name. He closes his eyes and roughly rubs his nose with his hand.

“Stiles,” she starts gently, stepping forward. “You didn’t have anything-”

“Don’t!” He exclaims forcefully, startling her into silence. He flinches at her stunned expression and uncrosses his arms.

“Just, please,” he says, “don’t say that it wasn’t my fault.”

Lydia warily watches him worry his lip and waits for him to continue, attempting to hide her shaking hands in the folds of her full skirt.

“Everyone keeps saying that it wasn’t my fault,” he mutters, his shoulders tense and his hands balled into fists. “But, I let him into my brain. I let him control my body. People got hurt- _died_ because of me.”

She takes another two small steps towards him. “Stiles-”

“He took you,” he says suddenly, briefly meeting her eyes before once again looking at the floor.

“A _thing_ with my _face_ ,” he spits vehemently, “took you to those tunnels and _murdered_ Allison-”

“That wasn’t you,” Lydia interjects breathlessly. She feels like there is a vise clamped tight around her heart and lungs.  The glare he shoots her way is caustic; she steps backward and accidentally hits her hip on the corner of his desk. Her vision begins to blur and she blinks.

“Yes,” he asserts brokenly. “It was. Everything that happened-”

“Stiles? Lydia?” Sheriff Stilinski’s concerned voice floats up from the first floor. She turns to face the door, surreptitiously wiping away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes with her thumb.

“I’ll be right down,” Lydia calls, her voice quivering slightly. She listens as his footsteps hesitantly recede towards the kitchen.

“How can you even look at me? I can’t even look at me,” Stiles whispers, his voice cracking.

“You are one of my best friends,” she manages to croak around the lump of grief and frustration currently lodged in her throat. “Please-”

She stops, her breath hitching and her body wilting.

“Please don’t shut me out,” she says, her voice quiet and raw. He wipes a hand over his eyes and looks out the window. His face in the diffused afternoon light reminds her of the way he looked the day she kissed him to save him - anxiety, worry, and grief lining his face and pressing his lips into a thin line.

If only I could save him from this, she thinks wistfully.

She charts the position of each freckle and mole on his ruddy face, and traces the shadows cast by his eyelashes on his lean cheeks.

If only he would let me, she thinks as his pink tongue darts out to wet his full bottom lip.

“I just need some time,” he finally says without meeting her eyes.

Her anger flickers to life like a flame, its sudden overwhelming roar making her her feel light-headed. She wants to refuse. She wants to slap him. She wants to shout at him to get his head out of his ass and _talk to her_. But, mostly, she just wants her best friends back.

“I understand,” she gasps. The words taste acidic on her tongue.

_Can he tell my heart is bleeding?_ The pained look he’s giving her makes her think he can. She exhales slowly, her breath ruffling the wisps of hair curling away from her temples.

“I understand,” she repeats, her anger dissipating.

Because she does.

There are tears in his eyes and his hands are shaking. She crosses the room in four quick strides, stands on her tiptoes, and throws her arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, her lips grazing his warm cheek. She releases him before he can reciprocate. She can feel his eyes on the back of her head as she hurriedly exits the room.

***

She wishes she was braver.

She wishes she was stronger.

She wishes she could have said what she needed to say.

***

Don’t shut me out _(and I love you)._

You’re my best friend _(and I love you)._

It’s okay _(and I love you)_.

* * *

Lydia watches a tumbleweed trip haphazardly through the desert from the backseat of Stiles’ beat-up Jeep, the leather seat hot against her bare thighs. Scott’s arm is draped over the seat, his fingers gently running through Kira’s glossy black hair as her head rests on his shoulder. Malia places her long legs, feet crossed, on the dashboard and gathers her hair into a ponytail with a yawn. Kira’s knee knocks against Lydia’s as Stiles races over a pothole in the dusty, black road. His long fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently.

“Sorry,” Kira says breathlessly. Lydia smiles tightly and shrugs. She shifts closer to the driver’s side door and catches Stiles’ eye in the rearview mirror, the tension in the car becoming almost as palpable as the sticky heat. She turns and presses her forehead to the warm glass of the window, willing her breaths to slow and her anxiety to lessen.

***

“I’m going with you, Scott,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Lydia,” Stiles interjected exasperatedly, “you can’t. It’s too dangerous! We have no idea what we’re going to come up against in Mexico.”

She kept her eyes on Scott, who appeared to be weighing the pros and cons of pissing off one of his best friends or the other.

“Lydia, you’ve already done so much,” Scott finally said, his tone conciliatory.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, “you’ve already confirmed that he’s alive. You’ll be safer-”

“I’m going to help you find Derek and that’s final.”

“But-”

“Stiles,” she snapped, her hands grasping the edge of the silver exam table tightly. “This is my decision. Not yours.”

She met Stiles’ angry glare with one of her own, her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Scott glanced between the two of them and cleared his throat. Stiles snorted derisively and stomped out of the office, the bell jangling loudly as he slammed the clinic’s front door.

She grimaced and closed her eyes.

_We have to find him._

She had been standing in the cemetery watching the others say their last goodbyes when he walked up beside her. She had hated the sight of that dark hole - that weeping wound in the yellowing hillside. Clumps of grass and dirt from its depths were strewn along the path up to it and the tracks from the bulldozer that dug the deep trench still fresh. Her hands had been cold and stiff, her hair windswept, and her eyes red from crying.

“Do you know what the word ‘tattoo’ means?” Derek had asked, his deep voice breaking through the muted sounds of distant weeping and mummered conversations. She had glanced at him quickly. His hands had been shoved casually into the pockets of his black leather jacket. She had followed his gaze; he was watching Scott hug Mr. Argent.

She had averted her eyes quickly, pinching the skin between her right thumb and index finger hard to keep a fresh wave of tears from falling.

“Do you want a simple definition, or the etymological history of the word?” She had replied sardonically, only a slight tremor in her voice. “Because we could be here for awhile.”

Derek had laughed softly and turned to face her. “I’m glad you’re not hiding who you are anymore; it makes our conversations so much more exciting,” he had deadpanned.

“I don’t think the number of conversations we’ve had is large enough for an accurate comparison to be drawn,” She had noted, staring ahead.

Derek had tilted his head in acquiescence and given her a closed-lipped smile. They had stood in silence for a few moments, watching the mourners move away from the deep mahogany coffin.

“You know, Allison reminded me of my mother a bit,” Derek had said, clearing his throat.

She had turned to face him, her mouth falling open slightly.

Derek’s voice had been steady as he continued, “She had the same kind of fierceness. She was loyal, strong, and kind.” He had toed a clump of dirt distractedly before meeting her stunned gaze. “Beacon Hills is going to be less safe without her around to protect it.”

Derek had pulled his right hand out of his jacket pocket and lightly wiped away one of her tears with his thumb. “Werewolves don’t scar,” he had said, shoving his hand back into his pocket and standing up a little straighter. “We heal too fast. But, we can imprint something permanent on our skin with fire.”

“Your tattoo,” she had replied breathlessly, her eyes widening.

Derek had nodded. “Tattoo means ‘open wound’ in Samoan. The loss of my family…it will always be a wound that I have to bear. But, recently, I decided that I don’t have to keep trying to fill that wound with anger and resentment.”

He had turned his gaze to Scott again, who had been standing arm-in-arm with his mother. She had remembered Stiles telling her once that Scott got  his tattoo the summer after he and Allison broke up...

“What Peter did to you is unforgivable,” Derek had said gently, interrupting her thoughts. “But you don’t have to associate your scars with him.”

Her startled gaze had met Derek’s steady one as her left hand unconsciously rose to press against her side.

“You’re just as strong as she was,” Derek had stated. “Don’t forget that.”

She had searched his eyes and saw nothing but sincerity. The corners of Derek’s lips had lifted briefly in the ghost of a smile before he began walking back to his truck.

“I’m here if you need anything,” he had called over his shoulder. She had watched him walk down the hill, climb into his truck, and drive away. She hadn’t bothered trying to wipe away her tears again; she had just let them fall.

_We have to find him._

Scott sighed as the echo of the ringing bell faded. Lydia held up one of her hands.

“Scott, please, I have to go,” she said tiredly, letting her raised arm fall to her side. “He’s my friend too.” She opened her eyes. Scott was studying her face intently.

“Okay,” he replied. She sighed in relief and slipped her cell phone into her purse.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning. We’re going to need a plan.”

“Are you suggesting that I apologize to Stiles?” She rolled her eyes.

“He cares about you.” Scott said with a soft smile.“I think he might like you more than he likes me.”

She wrinkled her nose to keep from smiling too widely. “We’ll figure it out, Scott. We always do.”

***

As Scott and Stiles maneuver Derek’s de-aged body onto an exam table, the hem of his shirt gets caught on the edge, pulling his collar down slightly and exposing the area of his upper back between his shoulder blades. She hisses in alarm.

Derek’s tattoo has disappeared.

She decides to stay with him in case he wakes up during the night. They don’t know what Kate did to him - if he’ll remember who he is or what happened to his family.

If he doesn’t remember anything from before his abduction...

I’ll be his tattoo, she thinks.

* * *

Loss.

That’s the feeling spreading through her hollow chest, wrapping its spindly fingers around her broken heart. She’s breathless with it. This sense of overwhelming loneliness. This exacting quietness in her head.

She almost wishes she could hear the whispers - those thin, papery voices she’d heard vibrating along that taut piece of yarn, stuttering through that record’s staticky scratches, and beckoning from beyond that wooden wall. Just for a moment, she thinks. Just long enough to fill the cavernous space in her chest with soft words and steady breaths.

She loves them and wants to see them happy - wants them to _be happy_ \- because it’s what Allison would have wanted.

_Allison..._

Each night she wanders through her dreams looking for her, but she never finds her.

Pink Cheeks. Dark hair. Red mouth.

_Is this constant ache what hell feels like? Is this jealousy what it tastes like?_

It’s a hot knife stabbing her in the gut.

She watches Scott flirting with Kira and Malia nuzzling Stiles’ neck. Her loneliness - her loss - crawls its way up her throat and threatens to spill out of her mouth in a desperate howl.

_This is wrong_.

“Are you okay?” Malia asks, her forehead wrinkled and eyes soft.

“Yeah. Just not feeling well,” she says, quickly standing up from the lunch table and slipping her purse over her shoulder.

“Do you want me to go with you to the nurse’s office?” Kira asks with concern.

She can feel Stiles’ eyes on her. She can sense Scott reading her vitals.

“That’s okay,” she replies with a small smile. “I think I might just head home early.”

***

“I can’t just turn this on. I’m not like you guys,” she says sardonically. “I don’t have claws or glowing eyes or super senses. I just have _voices in my head_.”

***

“How the fuck did she do that?” Stiles mutters as he rummages through the cabinet above the sink in the bathroom. “I mean-”

“Stiles,” she interjects tiredly, leaning her head against the cool wood of the doorframe.

“Nothing we’ve read ever indicated that banshees could do something like that,” he continues, pulling out a few cotton balls before crouching to dig under the sink for a bottle of peroxide. Lydia moves away from the door and into the room.

“Stiles, can you-”

“It was totally a dick move but also kind of badass-”

“Stiles,” she asserts a little more forcefully, shutting the toilet seat with a loud clack.

“Jesus!” Stiles exclaims, turning to look up at her with an expression of shock and trepidation. She thinks there may have been a time when his expression would have made her laugh; now it just serves as a painful reminder that her best friend is no longer the silly, sarcastic  boy he used to be - that he can never be. Not anymore. Not since…

It makes her chest ache. She swallows the lump in her throat and asks, “Can we talk about it later? I really want to get this blood off my face.”

Stiles clears his throat and nods, his forehead wrinkling. His sudden stillness makes her want to cry.

“Yeah, of course. Sit down,” he says, gesturing towards the now-closed toilet seat.

“I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts before she can finish her retort. “Just...Lyds, please, let me help.”

She wraps her arms around her chest and chews on her bottom lip, debating on whether or not to let herself fall back into him. She wavers for a moment before tentatively sliding one foot forward.

It’ll be like dipping my toes into the lake, she thinks, I just need a taste - a taste of what our friendship used to be before everything changed.

“Okay,” she concedes, sitting down on the plastic seat as daintily as she can. Her elbow touches the cool, porcelain tank and she shivers.

Stiles carefully pours peroxide on a few of cotton balls over the sink, squeezing out the excess moisture before turning to face her.

“Does it still hurt?” He asks as he kneels in front of her, reaching out to cup her chin in his hand. He’s so tall that, even kneeling, his eyes are still level with hers. He’s rolled up the cuffs of his plaid button-up, but she can still smell its freshly-laundered scent on his wrist.

“No,” she says too quickly, her face flushing under his studious gaze. He presses his lips into a thin line and quirks an eyebrow.

“Not much,” she amends, scrunching her nose. “I don’t think she completely perforated my eardrum.”

Stiles gently turns her face a little to the right so she’s looking over his left shoulder. She watches him examine her ear and the trail of now-dried blood on her cheek out of the corner of her eye.

“You should be able to take another aspirin soon,” he says thoughtfully, his brow furrowing slightly as he brushes her long hair off her shoulder and away from her neck. His fingertips brush against the skin right below her ear and she closes her eyes.

He slowly and meticulously works the peroxide-soaked cotton balls over the thin trail of blood on her cheek, his touch firm but tender. He brings his other hand up to cup her face, encouraging her to rest her right cheek on his palm as he cleans up the blood that speckles her neck. He hums a little to himself as he works, bracing his pinky on her jaw to steady his hand as he gets closer to her ear.

She recognizes the song with a jolt, her eyes popping open in surprise.

“Everything okay?” Stiles asks with concern, his hand pausing. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she replies quietly, her cheek still resting on his warm palm. “I just-”

_Heard that song while roaming around inside your head._

“Was starting to fall asleep,” she says in lieu of the truth. “I haven’t been sleeping well...”

_Since Allison. Since Aiden. Since Mexico_.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept well,” he smiles ruefully, dropping his hand and sitting back a little on his heel.

Her skin tingles, the room’s cool air caressing her too-warm cheek.

“Probably because it was when I was in the womb,” he jokes, tossing the used cotton balls into the small trash can beside him. The skin around her eyes crinkles slightly when she smiles. He meets her amused gaze and shrugs sheepishly.

“Oh, hey,” he says, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I missed a spot. Hold on.”

He stands, reaching over her head to pull a clean washcloth off the shelf above the toilet. He runs one of the cloths’ corners under the faucet before stooping to wipe it along her exposed collarbone. The damp cloth is cold, its texture a little rough from too many washes. Her lips part in surprise and she inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” Stiles winces, pulling his hand back quickly.

“It’s okay,” she replies breathlessly, her eyes a little unfocused. “It’s just cold.”

Liar, she thinks bitterly. It had been the intimacy of the moment that took her breath away. She hadn’t let anyone that close since-

“I should have made sure the water was warm first,” he admits with a frown, chewing on his lip.

“It’s okay,” she repeats, tentatively reaching out to touch his wrist.

“Um, may I?” Stiles asks, his tone hesitant. She watches his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. She nods shyly. He gently rubs the washcloth over her collarbone two more times before straightening and turning towards the sink.

“Thanks, Stiles,” she says softly.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies, clearing his throat. “I should-well, um...should we get back to it? Figuring out the third code?”

The anxiety that had settled in the pit of her stomach presses once again on her chest.

“Definitely,” she says determinedly.

No one else can die because of me, she thinks decisively.

_I won’t let them_.

***

Her phone falls to the floor and her face crumbles.

“Shhhh, It’s not your fault” he whispers. His arms are wrapped tight around her torso; one of his hands gently cradles her head. “Lyds, it’s not your fault.”

She lays her forehead against his chest and cries.

* * *

She jumps when she hears the knock on her bedroom door. She swings her legs over the side of her bed, glancing at her bedside clock and stretching her hands towards the ceiling. The short hairs on the back of her neck rise as she shuffles forward, the friction between the carpet and her thick, fleece socks generating static electricity.

The jolt she receives when her hand touches the metal knob of the door is nothing compared to the one she feels when she opens it and sees Malia.

“Malia, are you okay?” Lydia blurts. She hadn’t been in school or in contact with anyone since finding out the truth about Peter earlier that week. The Pack had been worried sick - especially since there was still a bounty on nearly all of their heads.

“Did you know?” Malia asks brusquely, pushing past Lydia into the room. She gently closes the bedroom door and turns to face her friend. Malia stands with her feet shoulder-width apart, her stance strong and graceful. Her shoulders are level and her arms crossed as she glares at Lydia.

“Yes,” she replies, meeting Malia’s steady gaze. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Malia responds, a slight tremor in her voice. She is hurt, angry, and confused.

Lydia thinks back to the time when she didn’t believe in things like werewolves, kanimas, banshees, or berserkers. When her worst nightmare involved failing an exam not being attacked on the lacrosse field by a deranged monster or losing her best friend.

She knows exactly how Malia feels.

She chews on her bottom lip as she considers her answer.

“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” she finally states softly. Malia wrinkles her nose and blinks rapidly in an effort to keep her tears from falling.

“And,” she clears her throat and speaks more firmly, “you aren’t him.”

Malia’s eyes widen and her steady stance falters slightly.

“You are not Peter,” she says, moving closer as Malia sits abruptly on her bed. Her fingers curl around the edge of the mattress, clutching Lydia’s purple comforter.

“How do you know?” Malia whispers, her hands shaking slightly.

Lydia perches on the bed next to her and gently covers one of Malia’s hands with her own.

“Because you care about people - about the Pack - not just yourself. You protect people,” she says earnestly. Malia shakes her head and a few tears slip down her cheeks.

“No, I’m a killer. Like him.” The pitch of her voice rises as she struggles to keep her composure. “I told her I hated her and then I killed her.”

Malia jerks her hand away from Lydia and clasps it to her chest, digging her extended nails into her palm. Lydia sucks in her cheeks as she watches Malia tremble with emotion and with the effort of maintaining control.

“Malia,” she starts gently, “I know what it’s like to feel tied to Peter.”

She pauses. She can’t remember the last time she was this transparent - this vulnerable - with someone other than Allison. She takes a deep breath.

“To feel like you can’t escape him or his legacy,” she finishes.

Malia glances at her quickly. “He was in your head, right?” She asks, her voice shaking slightly.

“Yeah,” Lydia confirms. “He was.”

“You told me that he was insane - a murderer,” Malia continues, looking ahead. “That he assaulted you and Scott. That he used you to bring him back to life after Derek killed him.”

She nods. She can see the proverbial wheels turning in Malia’s head.

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” Malia asks tearfully, finally turning to meet her gaze.

She considers her answer as Allison, frozen in time, smiles at her from the picture taped to the mirror of her vanity.

“Because you deserved the chance to figure out who you were as a human again without being haunted by his actions - by him.”

Malia’s brow furrows, but her hands begin to relax.

Lydia closes her eyes briefly, and remembers the feeling of Allison’s warm hands on her face, of Stiles’ chapped lips and soft gaze, and of Derek brushing away her tears with his thumb.

“We all have scars - some physical, some psychological - that people can use to try and define us,” she states slowly, pensively. “But, the thing about scars is...you get to choose what they mean to you. What you associate them with.”

A fresh wave of tears fills Malia’s eyes, but she doesn’t blink them away.

“Peter might be your biological father,” she concludes, “But the Pack is your family.”

Malia pulls her long legs into her chest and wraps her arms around her knees. Her head droops as she begins to cry, her body shaking with repressed sobs. Lydia kneels on the bed and pulls Malia into a fierce hug.

“We are your family,” she repeats, holding Malia tightly.

***

“Could I stay here tonight?” Malia asks nervously as she slowly spins in Lydia’s desk chair.

Lydia looks from her AP US History textbook and smiles. Her laptop is open on the desk behind Malia, Netflix counting down the seconds until the next episode of _Parks and Recreation_ begins.

“Of course,” she replies. “Do you want to borrow some shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in?”

“That would be great,” Malia smiles, pushing pause as the opening credits of the show start to play.

She crawls off her bed and walks to her dresser, pulling out a pair of grey pajama shorts and a t-shirt with a purple unicorn on it. She turns and holds the clothes out to Malia.

“The bathroom is just down the hall. You can use my face wash and lotion, if you like.”

Malia nods shyly, kicking off her shoes by Lydia’s bedroom door.

As Malia’s footsteps echo down the hall, her smile fades slightly.

The last sleepover she had was with Allison. She had called her the night that Stiles admitted himself into Eichen House. Allison had arrived with a black duffle bag full of junk food, 80’s movies, and magazines. It had also contained her crossbow and a quiver of arrows.

“Just in case,” Allison had said with a tight smile.

“Lydia? Are you ok?” Malia asks, her concerned voice interrupting Lydia’s thoughts. She places her pile of neatly-folded clothes on top of Lydia’s desk.

“Yeah.” She clears her throat,  shooting Maila a sad smile. “Yeah, I was just thinking about the last time I had a sleepover.”

Malia nods knowingly before crossing the room in two strides and pulling Lydia into a quick, firm hug.

“This is my first real sleepover since I was a coyote,” Malia states simply, pulling away before Lydia has a chance to reciprocate. She keeps her hands on Lydia’s shoulders. “I don’t think sleeping over at Stiles’ house counts, right?”

Sadness tints Lydia’s laugh and tightens her smile. “Probably not,” she replies shaking her head.

Malia’s grin turns into a frown as she flops onto Lydia’s bed and hugs a pillow to her chest. “I’m still furious with him for not telling me about Peter.”

“You probably will be for a while,” Lydia responds as she sits on the edge of her bed. “And that’s ok.”

Malia raises one of her eyebrows. “You aren’t going to defend him?”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s my best friend, but he can be such an idiot sometimes.”

Malia hugs the pillow a little closer and nods.

“And,” she continues as she picks at a loose thread on her comforter, “It’s okay if you’re still mad at me for keeping it a secret too.” She meets Malia’s surprised stare and shrugs. “You deserve to feel however you want to feel about the whole situation. Just know that we all care about you, and we’re not going anywhere.”

After a few seconds, Malia clears her throat. “Thanks for letting me stay over.”

Lydia gives her a closed-lipped smile before slipping off the bed to grab her laptop.

“So, what movie should we watch first?” She asks as she turns around with a flourish. “ _The Phantom Menace_ or _A New Hope_?”

Malia’s mouth gapes open in horror.

“Just kidding,” she smirks.

“Thank god!” Malia exclaims, scooting over to give Lydia more room to sit on the bed.

“Do you want to watch _The Breakfast Club_  or _The Princess Bride_ ?” She asks, scrolling through her list of saved movies.

“What’s _The Princess Bride_?”

Lydia turns to look at Malia, the expression on her face a mixture of shock and horror.

“Just kidding,” Malia grins. She reaches over Lydia’s limp hand lying on the mousepad to double click on _The Princess Bride_.

“I’m such a sap for Westley,” Malia says, resting her chin on the top of her pillow.

***

"We're the monsters," Meredith says brokenly. "Even banshees. Even me."

"I don't believe that," she says softly.

( _There's always hope_ , Allison whispers.)

"Not all monsters do monstrous things," she asserts, her voice clear and steady.

"Like who?" Meredith asks disbelievingly. Her eyes are glassy and glazed with tears.

"Like Scott."

***

Stiles tells Lydia what happened in Mexico with Kate.

And with Peter.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it,” Stiles mutters as he paces back and forth in her bedroom.

“Stiles-”

“I knew we couldn’t trust Peter. I knew that bastard was up to something,” Stiles continues. “We should have never let him come with us!”

“Stiles!” She interjects exasperatedly. He stops and looks at her, placing his hands on his hips. His hair sticks up at odd angles from where he’s run his hands through it. His blue t-shirt has ridden up above the grey band of his boxers on his left side.

“How is Malia dealing with all of this?” She asks a little breathlessly, tucking a curl behind her ear.

Stiles brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Lydia sighs pointedly. “Stiles. Her biological father tried to kill Scott and is now locked up in Eichen. Have you talked to her at all about everything that happened? About how she’s feeling?”

Stiles harrumphs, waving his hands around like he’s trying to conjure an excuse out of thin air.

“Look,” she continues, holding up a hand to stop him from speaking. “You need to talk to her. We can figure the rest of out later. We always do,” she finishes with a smile.

Stiles chews on his bottom lip.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admits grudgingly.

“I’m always right,” she responds haughtily.

“Not always,” he says affectionately, smiling softly.

Lydia blushes and focuses on picking an invisible thread off her striped skirt.

***

Research, she decides, will be her new coping mechanism.

“Whatever you are, it might be in here,” she asserts, watching Parrish thumb through her copy of the bestiary. “I’d like to help you figure it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Gasoline" by Halsey.
> 
> Thank you [Ashlynn](http://wernotthings.tumblr.com/) and [Alison](http://rossansguil.tumblr.com/) for proofreading this beast. You guys are the best and I love you. Also, thank you to everyone who read Part 1 and waited so patiently for Part 2. Your support and encouragement mean the world to me!
> 
>  


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